


A Matter of Control

by shalako



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: All relationships are pretty much platonic, Angst, Anorexia, Anxiety, Child Abuse, Eating Disorders, Gen, Gratuitous Sadness, Hurt/Comfort, Lets Make Fics About Dove A Thing, Malcolm's A+ Parenting, Mentions of Lost Boys and Darlings, Minor Character Deaths, OCD, Self Harm, Whump, but the beginning of a happy ending?, but theyre both canon character deaths and not central to the story, not quite a happy ending, you fucked up a perfectly good monkey is what you did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 02:43:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 12,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15940148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shalako/pseuds/shalako
Summary: He's about to hit the 42-hour mark, and Gold isn't hungry at all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (shrug emoji) I almost want to apologize for including the Lost Boys in this; I don't usually write them, and I hope there isn't an existing fandom for them that will be offended by my portrayal. They almost feel like OCs to me, which I think is why I want to apologize. In case you, like me, have to look up their names: Felix is Peter Pan's right-hand man in season 3, Devin is the Lost Boy who attacks Emma, and Michael is Michael Darling, Wendy's brother.

He’s about to hit the 42-hour mark and Gold isn’t hungry at all, like he expected to be. He’s standing in the kitchen in his socks, hugging himself through his sweater, shaking a little from the cold. And he wouldn’t be so cold if he just ate something, he knows, but that’s part of the fun.

The pantry doesn’t hold anything that can really serve as a snack. There’s a can of Rotel and a jar of strawberry jam, which Gold doesn’t even like anyway, and a bag of flour, and a few boxes of dried beans. The fridge isn’t much better -- there’s three onions, honey mustard, a single, shriveled bell pepper. It’s easier to abstain from food when nothing in the house really tempts you. Gold hasn’t been grocery shopping in weeks.

He turns and sees the tin of shortbread biscuits Dove brought him yesterday. Gold’s never been a huge fan of shortbread. He opens the tin, examines the biscuits. Without much thought, he plucks five out -- mixing and matching the different types of biscuits for a touch of realism -- and lets them fall into the trash. Then he closes the biscuit tin again.

Gold walks into the living room and picks up a book. If he reads, he forgets what time it is -- even if it’s a bad book -- and he doesn’t get tempted. Right now, his biggest challenge is avoiding delivery orders. He isn’t hungry, but he can’t stop thinking about food, and that’s dangerous.

Gold looks through the doorway, sees the corner of the fridge. He decides to read upstairs instead. He won’t be tempted as much, and if he gets hungry he can just lie down and go to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s been 74 hours. Gold taps his fingers on the counter, watches Miss Blanchard pick out a gift for a coworker. She lingers by a small shelf of antique bells, none of them particularly pleasing to the eye. She wants to ring them, Gold can tell, but she’s too nervous that Gold will yell at her if she does.

Not that he’s irritable, just that Miss Blanchard is timid. He’s never yelled at her in his life.

His stomach grumbles. Gold ignores it, barely registering the sound. He’s grown bored of watching Miss Blanchard so he takes out the book he started -- god, at least two weeks ago -- and tries to get through a page. It’s been hard to concentrate lately. He fasts every day, and it’s never affected his concentration before, so he guesses this is either a side effect of full starvation or … maybe he’s just dumb. Sometimes his intelligence and productivity seem to fade away for months at a time. Gold doesn’t know how to explain that, but he knows he can’t blame it on food.

One paragraph. Gold decides to skip the page entirely. He remembers finding Anthony Trollope amusing at one point in his life, but he’s having trouble figuring out why. He scans the next two pages and skips them as well, then flips through to see when the chapter ends. He’s tired of reading this book. It doesn’t feel like a hobby to read; it feels like a chore to fill his time before he can go to sleep.

He considers a genre change. Nonfiction, or something transgressive. Essays. James Baldwin or Virginia Woolf. He flips right past the next chapter and then stops and turns directly to the end of the book, checking the page number. Maybe he should just go with something short. He has a book about Shakespeare’s influence on China that can’t be more than 100 pages. He could finish it in an hour, might get him out of this slump--

His stomach growls again.

“Hungry?” Miss Blanchard chirps. Gold glances up at her and says nothing. Her stance is painfully awkward, one leg cocked, her arms stiff at her sides. She clearly doesn’t want to be here, clearly doesn’t want to talk to him, clearly is trying to gather her courage to just buy her stuff and go. He doesn’t know why she’s so timid. He’s never done anything to her. “I skipped lunch, so I feel your pain,” says Miss Blanchard.

Gold gives her an attempt at a smile. He looks back down at his book and closes it. The print is too small, he decides, and there’s not enough paragraph breaks. That’s why he’s struggling so much with it. He thinks of the book about China and Shakespeare again and then his mind conjures up a book he saw at the bookstore the last time he visited.

He pushes that memory away.

“What are you reading?” Miss Blanchard asks, voice squeaking. She’s still hovering near the bells. Any minute now she’ll ask if it’s okay to ring them, but she needs to work herself up first. Gold knows how that goes.

“ _The Way We Live Now_ ,” says Gold. “Anthony Trollope.”

“Oh, Trollope!” says Miss Blanchard. “There’s so many love triangles in that book. It made my head spin.”

Gold doesn’t know what to say. He hasn’t encountered any love triangles yet.

“I read it in college,” Miss Blanchard says. She says it with an air like she’s handing Gold a peace offering. He isn’t sure why they need to make peace. “One of my professors mentioned it off-hand and I decided to check it out. It … wasn’t my favorite.”

“Nor mine,” says Gold. From the back, his electric kettle starts to beep, covering the sound of yet another stomach rumble. “Excuse me,” says Gold. He feels a slight pang of guilt as he disappears into the back room; Miss Blanchard opens and closes her mouth, and he knows she had been just about to ask if she could ring the bells.

He makes himself a cup of tea. The American teabag kind. Cheap, green, nothing added. Green tea staves off hunger -- he read that on the Internet. And if you go two days without eating, you stop feeling hungry. He read that in a book about hunger strikes, but evidently it wasn’t true. Gold’s fingers are freezing and pale, and for a while he just stands, leaning against his desk, letting the cup warm his hands. His eyes go unfocused and he thinks again of that book he glimpsed at the store.

There’s a shuffling noise from the main part of the shop, and then a muffled tinkling sound. Gold straightens up and remembers to breathe. He heads back out and resumes his position at the counter, but he doesn’t pick up the book.

Miss Blanchard is blushing. Maybe she thinks she’s in trouble. Gold wonders if perhaps it’s a teacher thing, if Miss Blanchard thinks the way she does because she spends so much time around schoolchildren.

“Which one was that?” Gold asks, nodding at the bells. He takes a sip of tea while Miss Blanchard processes what he said.

“Er, this one,” she says, holding it up. Gold looks at it, eyes hooded, and then looks at the others.

“The one two over,” he says. “It has a better sound, I think. Try it out.”

Miss Blanchard hesitates before reaching for it. This bell isn’t as old, and Gold bought it from an estate fair at a farm upstate, so its origin isn’t exactly impressive, but it does sound much nicer than the others. If one is into bells. Miss Blanchard’s face lights up when she hears it.

“I like it,” she says. “It’s a lot … deeper.”

Gold nods. He looks away as Miss Blanchard checks the price, pretending to be interested in his book again. When she approaches his counter, their friendly rapport -- if one could call it that -- has vanished, and Miss Blanchard is shy again, her eyes downcast, her hands pulling at one another.

She hands him the money. Gold wraps up the bell and prints her receipt. It takes him too long to do the math for her change, and Miss Blanchard politely pretends not to notice the wait. Gold sighs, brushes a hand over his eyes, and re-does the math.

He’s had two drinks of green tea and it sits heavily in his stomach.


	3. Chapter 3

At the 90 hour mark, Gold can’t believe he hasn’t fainted yet. He feels incredibly sore; there are bruises on his legs that he can’t really explain. When he’s standing behind the counter at 5 pm., the tissue around his knees suddenly seems to melt and Gold sinks to the floor, grateful that the shop is empty. When the tingling sensation fades, he decides maybe it’s time to go home, and maybe it’s time to eat something, even if it is something small.

He makes himself a bowl of brown rice. Just half a cup -- he doesn’t want to ruin the feeling of lightness he has right now, of near-weightlessness. Gold eats it slowly, perched on the edge of his chair, facing away from the kitchen table to remind himself that this is a quick meal, and that he isn’t going to linger or make anymore. 

It’s always a slippery slope when he breaks a fast. Especially if there are groceries in the house -- and thanks to Dove, there are. Dove always notices when Gold doesn’t get groceries. It may take him a few days sometimes, but he notices.

Gold finishes the rice, washes the bowl, puts it away mechanically. It’s only six. He grabs the tin of shortbread biscuits and puts two in the trash, leaving it almost empty. If he goes to bed now, he shouldn’t have too much difficulty at least dozing off until morning. Gold doesn’t always manage to sleep, but he still gets rest, even if he’s just lying in bed, mind drifting.

And if he doesn’t go to bed….

Gold makes his way upstairs slowly, careful with his knees.


	4. Chapter 4

The clock has reset, thanks to that bowl of rice, but it’s now been 24 hours without food. Gold stands in the bookstore, in the last row of fiction books. To his right is the psychology section, with the book he can’t stop thinking about, but Gold shied away from it earlier because there was a group of college students sitting there, and he didn’t want them to see what he was grabbing.

Now, of course, his dilemma is a bit worse. The college students may have judged him, but they weren’t from Storybrooke, so it’s not like they could tell anyone what they saw. And anyway, they would probably assume Gold was a father and that the book was for his child. Or his wife. But this was much worse.

Archie Hopper is browsing the Oliver Sacks books.

He hasn’t seen Gold yet -- or if he has, he’s chosen to ignore him. Gold turns away and stares, for the hundredth time, at the Updike and Vonnegut books before him. He glances at Archie, and then pulls down _Hocus Pocus_ and reads the blurb on the back. He’s already read this blurb. He’d read it three times, actually.

He glances at Archie again. Archie stares thoughtfully at the Oliver Sacks book in his hand, looks at the shelf, and puts the book back. Gold feels a flare of hope that dies when Archie reaches for another book one shelf down, and then his breath catches when he realizes what Archie is grabbing.

It’s Gold’s book. The only copy on the shelf, as far as Gold can tell, and if Archie takes it, then Gold knows he won’t have the balls to ask one of the employees if they have another copy in stock -- and oh god, he knows _exactly_ how Miss Blanchard felt with the bells.

Archie opens the book and reads the introduction.

The title is _Midlife Eating Disorders_. Gold takes a step forward, bravery shooting through him, and then takes a step back and faces the Vonnegut books again, face flushing. There are so many reasons why he should just leave. So many. Number one:

………

Gold’s having a hard time articulating any reasons. But they exist, he’s sure of it. He pops his head around the corner at Archie again and finds him flipping through Chapter One.

Oh, god. Okay. If Gold just walks up and distracts Archie, maybe he’ll put the book down and walk away? No. Horrible plan.

 _Just buy it online_ , Gold tells himself.

 _It won’t be delivered for weeks_ , he argues.

_Amazon has two-day shipping._

_Their definition of two days is rather loose. Last time, it took a month_.

_That’s because the delivery man doesn’t like you. You shouldn’t have charged him for the extra utilities last June._

Ridiculous. The whole thing is ridiculous. Gold grabs an Updike book off the shelf and lets his eyes run over a few lines, taking nothing in. Slowly, his gaze is drawn back to the psychology section, and to Archie, who is...

Gone.

“Thank God,” Gold whispers. He shoves the Updike book back onto the shelf backward and makes a beeline straight for _Midlife Eating Disorders_ ; no sooner is it in his hands then he registers the chair behind him, the chair he couldn’t see from his spot in the fiction aisle. The chair that is currently occupied by Archie Hopper.

“Mr. Gold?” says Archie.

Gold turns slowly, thinking _HIDE THE BOOK_ and simultaneously failing to do anything of the sort. He sways a little when he sees Archie sitting there, an Oliver Sacks book open on his leg. Of course.

“Dr. Hopper,” says Mr. Gold. His throat sounds dry. “You’re a long way from home.”

What a stupid thing to say.

“So are you,” says Archie.

His eyes are on _Midlife Eating Disorders._ Of course they are. Gold’s mind is still screaming at him and he finally obeys it, half-heartedly hiding the book behind his back. Not that it matters by now. Archie’s eyes go back up to meet Gold’s, and he offers a gentle smile.

“Not a lot of good bookstores near Storybrooke,” he says.


	5. Chapter 5

The drive home is a sensory hurricane, with Gold’s mind pulled between the streetlights and headlights -- all blurs -- the book lying innocently on the passenger’s seat, and the horrible swirling cloud of anxiety in his head. It’s wrong to even label it anxiety, when it’s really something much more simple and malevolent. It’s a swirling cloud of BAD. Just BAD.

The drive back home is supposed to last one hour, and maybe it does, but Gold just isn’t quite there for it. It feels simultaneously like it lasts ten minutes and an entire day. When he parks in the garage, he looks at the book and wonders for a moment if maybe he should just roll the windows down and leave the car running. Just sleep out here.

Gold considers the various indignities of death. He tries to remember exactly what his will says. At long last, and with a guilty start, he remembers the series of suicide notes he’d written the last time he felt like this. They’re still in his desk, and he can’t stand the thought of someone he knows cleaning out his house and finding them. So that settles it.

He goes inside. To the kitchen. Stands there feeling lost. He’s surrounded by food -- food chosen by _Dove_ \-- stuff that reminds him all too strongly of his father’s grocery trips when he was a boy.

 _I know you like rice_ , Dove had said when he was emptying the grocery bags. _So I got you some Zatarain’s and Rice-a-Roni, and some couscous, and some oatmeal_.

He’d showcased about five boxes of each and then silently pulled out an assorted box of crisps and two different types of Poptarts that Gold was certain he would never eat. He’d wanted to cry. At the same time, it had been sort of a blessing. Dove meant well, but he’d bought things Gold would never eat, even if he wanted to.

He opens his fridge and stares at no less than ten Lunchables, at least one of which is well past its expiry date. Case in point.

Gold turns to the kitchen table with a sigh. He sets the book down in front of him and takes a seat. Rice has slowly become his only safe food, the only thing he can regularly eat without risk of being nauseated. It doesn’t have to be plain, but plain is best when Gold isn’t feeling well. And lately, that’s been all the time.

He doesn’t want to open this book.

A flush takes over his face and Gold leans forward, pressing his forehead against the table with a groan. He _definitely_ doesn’t want to see Archie tomorrow, but he’s certain he will. And what can Gold possibly say to him about it? “Oh, it’s for a friend?” Archie knows he doesn’t have any friends. Everyone in Storybrooke knows that.

So, the truth, Gold thinks. Or at least a portion of it. There’s no harm in telling Archie that it’s his book. And there’s no harm in telling Archie that the issue is being handled, and that Gold is already seeing a therapist for it. Really, he doesn’t _have_ to tell Archie anything.

The worst case scenario that could possibly come out of this is Archie deciding to be Gold’s friend, or Archie deciding to mention something to Dove. Both seem far-fetched. Dove has never accompanied Gold to collect rent from Archie, so it’s possible they don’t even know each other.

And God, he just _had_ to buy this book today, didn’t he?


	6. Chapter 6

“Seen this before?”

Emma isn’t one for preambles. She walks into Gold’s shop every now and then and always dives right into whatever police business/Regina shenanigans she’s handling at the moment. Gold tries to focus on the thing she’s holding up, but it takes him a moment; the light from the windows makes everything in front of it seem blurry.

Emma’s pace slows down until she’s standing still in front of the counter, still holding the object up. She cocks an eyebrow at Gold. She’s holding an antique harmonica, he realizes. But he’s having trouble figuring out how he knows it’s an antique, and can’t remember if he’s ever sold any harmonicas.

“Gold,” Emma snaps. “Come on, what the hell?”

Gold blinks at her. He hasn’t been zoning out for too long. “It’s a Puck,” he says, the information coming out of his mouth before he’s even registered it in his brain. “Sold by Hohner in the 1930s, though that right there isn’t an original. It’s a collectible re-release from 1972. They’re the smallest ten-hole harmonicas in the world.”

Emma’s raised eyebrow gets higher. “Cool,” she says. “Also I don’t care. Who did you sell it to?”

Who _did_ he sell it to? He pulls the box of cards from beneath the counter and flips through them idly.

“May I ask why you’re asking?” he says. Emma bristles.

“It’s police business,” she says.

“Cute.” The cards are all blank. Gold has never forgotten a customer before. He stops flipping, hyper-aware that Emma is watching him, and puts a hand to his forehead like that could stifle his headache. Without asking, Emma grabs the box and turns it toward her. Gold doesn’t have the energy to stop her.

She pulls out one card, then another, then flips through the whole box.

“Gold,” Emma says finally, voice flat, “what the fuck?”

Gold sighs and roots around behind the counter for a bottle of Excedrin. Emma waves one of the cards at him.

“This is _blank_ ,” she says. Gold can’t think of anything to say. He shrugs and opens the bottle of Excedrin; it’s empty.

“Well, those are the blank cards,” Gold says lamely, wincing at his own half-baked excuse. “I must have put the real ones in storage.”

“Okay, well --” Emma flounders around with the cards she’s holding for a moment before stuffing them back in the box. “Listen, do you know who you sold this thing to or not?”

Gold shrugs. He doesn’t have the energy for a verbal answer.

“Gold...” Emma puts the harmonica down on the counter and leans toward him, her palms splayed. “I want to accuse you of covering something up, because that’s what experience and logic tell me is going on, but … are you having a mental crisis or something?”

Gold gives her his best withering look. Emma doesn’t back off.

“You’ve lost weight,” she says.

“Glad you noticed,” says Gold. “I’ve taken up pilates.”

“No, seriously,” says Emma. “The other day at Granny’s, I heard Leroy call you Skeletor. And I’m sure you don’t get that reference, because no one in this town watches TV, so here --”

She pulls her phone from her pocket and types something in. Silently, she turns the phone so Gold can see it, and he stares impassively at about a dozen images of a skeleton wearing a purple hood.

“Flattering,” he says. He touches one of the pictures and it gets bigger. “Of course, I’m not that tall.”

The phone disappears back into Emma’s jacket. “Okay, whatever,” she says. “Just let me know if you remember who bought the harmonica, okay?”

“Of course,” says Gold. “I live to serve.”

He presses a hand to his ribs as Emma leaves. They’re aching today. Impressive for only one day.


	7. Chapter 7

On Monday, Gold goes back to regular fasting. He plays fast and loose with the hours. So long as he waits ‘til after work to eat, it’s fine. No breakfast, no lunch, and no more than 30 calories during the day.

Tea doesn’t count. Gold decided that a long time ago. There’s hardly any calories in it anyway.

He’s down to 117. It seemed like a low weight initially -- lower than he ever wanted, in fact -- but then he started reading _Midlife Eating Disorders_ , and they made a comment about the difference between healthy people who weigh 115 and anorexic people who weigh 70 and … suddenly 117 didn’t seem as thin as it had a moment ago.

Gold isn’t sure he even wants to be thin, really. He has a hard time pinning down his motivations. Photos of thin men don’t inspire him -- nor do they repulse him. He supposes it’s less about the visibility of his ribcage and more about how much space he occupies.

He keeps the book at the counter with him, and moves it to the little shelf where the box of cards is hidden whenever a customer (or, more likely, an angry tenant) walks in. Right now, the shop is empty, so Gold opens it and flips through the chapters.

There’s one section devoted entirely to men with eating disorders. It isn’t very helpful. Gold skips over it, and then skips an entirely-too-large section filled with medical jargon, only stopping when he unexpectedly sees the word ‘trauma.’

 _A substantial minority of women with eating disorders of all types report histories of childhood physical or sexual abuse .… Generally, abuse is considered a non-specific risk factor: It can unleash whatever underlying genetic predispositions to mental illness one may have. But how can childhood abuse continue to be a trigger for eating disorders in midlife? Several possible scenarios exist. Some people experience ongoing memories of the abuse throughout their life. These traumatic memories can be reignited by the smallest of reminders, and the emotions connected to them can trigger disordered eating_.

Gold considers this passage for a while, reading it over and over again. His fingers twitch, and he’s reaching for a highlighter when the bell over the shop door rings and Gold shoves the book out of sight, his face growing hot when he sees Archie Hopper walking in. Archie answers his blush with a smile.

“Hey, Mr. Gold,” he says, taking his gloves off. “I was wondering if we could talk?”

There’s snow on Archie’s shoulders. Gold fixates on it, his eyes hooded, and all that’s going through his mind is how goddamn cold it’s gonna be in his house tonight. He’ll need to grab extra blankets from the linen closet.

Archie takes his silence as a yes. He moves closer, stops when he’s just on the other side of the counter.

“You’ve lost a lot of weight,” he says. “Since … you know…”

Gold really doesn’t appreciate all these comments about his weight. If people notice when you lose weight, it generally means you’re not all that thin to start with. He shifts uncomfortably, fingers brushing against the hidden book.

“Since…?” he asks.

“Well, since I saw you over the weekend,” says Archie. Gold snorts.

“Believe me, I haven’t lost weight in the _last two days_.”

“Well, you _look_ thinner,” says Archie. His eyes are moving up and down Gold’s body in concern. “Are you okay? You’re not sick?”

“No,” says Gold. He stares down at his hands, unable to look Archie in the face suddenly.

“I saw you with that book,” Archie reminds him. His voice goes soft when he says it; Gold’s eyes flicker to the left and then back to his hands. “Do you have an eating disorder?”

Archie is striving for eye contact, and finally Gold gives it to him, along with an awkward smile that he regrets as soon as it stretches across his face.

“It’s just an interest of mine,” he says. “I-I saw you with it and thought … I didn’t realize eating disorders existed outside of … teenagers.”

There’s a thick crease between Archie’s eyebrows, and his mouth is compressed in a thin line, but he doesn’t call Gold on the lie. Or rather, the evasion of truth. Gold drops the awkward smile and matches Archie’s expression until finally Archie looks away. Too late, it occurs to Gold that he could have thrown Archie’s question back at him instead of stammering through an excuse.

“I was wondering if you wanna come over to -- to my place,” says Archie’s softly. “Tonight. And watch, um … Scooby-Doo.”

“I -- what?” says Gold.

“Come to my place,” says Archie more firmly. “I’ve got _Scooby and Scrappy Doo_ and I’ve got _A Pup Named Scooby Doo_ and I have, like, all the movies, even the new ones. I’ve got _Camp Scare,_ that's a new one. I’ve got _Boo Brothers_. I’ve got it all. You like _Scooby Doo on Zombie Island_?”

What the fuck did Gold do to make Archie think he likes Scooby Doo?

“I … can’t say I’ve seen it,” Gold says. Archie’s face lights up.

“Well, perfect! We can watch it tonight, then! Which ones _have_ you seen?”

“I … er…”

“We’ll have a marathon,” Archie decides. “It’s a sleepover. Bring your pajamas.”

This isn’t the confrontation Gold thought it would be. He almost considers taking the book out just to bring the conversation back on track.

“I--” he starts.

“I’m off work,” Archie says, already turning away. “Just head over when you’re done here, I’ll be waiting!” He stops by the door and turns back to Gold again. “You want any specific snacks from the store?”

Gold can’t think of anything to say. Archie smiles at him, maybe amused by how flummoxed he looks.

“I’ll get a variety,” says Archie.

And then he’s gone, and Gold is alone, and his ribs hurt, and he has a date tonight.

With Archie.

To watch Scooby-Doo.


	8. Chapter 8

Dove is waiting for him when he gets home, sitting at the kitchen table with a grim look on his face and the tin of shortbread biscuits before him. Something about this image is so terribly funny the Gold has to turn away, pretending to have trouble with the lock on the front door. He’s dizzy from amusement -- or dizzy from something, anyway.

“Mr. Gold--” Dove starts. Gold hurries past the kitchen, waving Dove’s words away.

“I’m sorry, I can’t stay and chat--”

“--we have to talk about--”

“--got to get ready for a date,” says Gold, deciding on the spot to embrace Archie’s invitation, so long as it’ll get him out of whatever’s up with Dove. Dove falls quiet, his face softening.

“You have a date?” he asks. Gold pauses at the foot of the stairs, considers it, and takes a few steps back toward the kitchen. He tries to look excited. Or at least not depressed.

“Yes,” he says. “So … I can’t talk right now.”

Poor Dove. He looks baffled. It’s a bit hurtful.

“But -- who --” he starts, and then visibly stuffs his questions deep down. He shakes his head and gives Gold a firm look. “We’ll make it quick, then. You haven’t been eating the cookies.”

“Of course I have,” says Gold breezily, turning back toward the stairs. “Did you look in the tin?”

“I looked in the _trash_ ,” says Dove. Gold swallows, hearing his throat click. He struggles to force out words.

“Well, that’s invasive,” he says. His voice sounds hoarse.

“And _in_ the trash, I found five different shortbread cookies from this tin, so I can only assume that you haven’t been --”

Gold is done listening. He heads upstairs. He hears a muffled “damn it” and then the sound of Dove’s chair scraping against the kitchen tile. The next thing he knows, Dove is right behind him, still chattering away.

“--you’ve been throwing them away to make it look like you were eating them. And normally I would just think you were being polite, but sir, that’s way overboard for someone who’s trying to be polite. To go to the length of -- of taking a few cookies out per day and putting them in the trash like that, it’s just paranoid.”

“Paranoia seems justified when you find out your assistant is cataloguing the contents of your garbage bin.”

Gold turns abruptly into his bedroom and tries to shut the door, but he really isn’t a match for Dove, even on his best days.

“Dove,” Gold snaps as the door bounces back on him, “I’m trying to change. I really do have a date.”

“You’re not eating,” says Dove. His voice is quieter than normal. Gold takes a deep breath and grits his teeth.

“I’ll eat during the date,” he says.

“I mean the groceries. Do you not like them? I got you rice--”

“Yes, yes, yes,” says Gold. He puts his hands on Dove’s stomach and pushes, but Dove doesn’t budge, just stares down at him with wide, worried eyes. “And I had some, so I don’t see what the problem is.”

“Have you been getting takeout?” Dove asks, taking Gold’s wrists. “Because if you’re not getting takeout, then based on how much of the groceries you’ve eaten, you’ve only had one meal in the past three days.”

“Then I’ve been getting takeout!” Gold snaps. He pulls away, doing his best to look exasperated and not just … tired. “Dove, please. If you want to discuss this, we can do it later.”

He starts unbuttoning his jacket, knowing (hoping) that Dove’s sense of propriety will temporarily outweigh his concern. Dove hesitates and then moves away, keeping the door open but withdrawing further into the hall so that he can’t see inside.

“You seem like you’ve lost a lot of weight, is all,” Dove says. “And it’s not like you had much to spare to begin with.”

“ _Dove_ ,” Gold says.

“I’m worried about you,” Dove says, the force of his voice overriding Gold’s words. “I think a lot of people are. I know I’m definitely not the only one who’s noticed. I’ve even had people asking me if you’re okay because they know I work for you. You know who gave me those shortbread cookies?”

Gold says nothing. He’d thought Dove brought them home from the store. He looks in the mirror and unknots his tie and focuses fiercely on re-tying it, trying to ignore Dove.

“Ruby Lucas,” Dove says. “The waitress from the diner. She told me not to tell you it was her because she thought you’d think it was some sort of bribe. Listen, if you want me to make a call for you -- to set up an appointment, maybe, with Dr. Hopper--”

“No,” says Gold roughly. _Oh, God, no_. He looks down at his tie and lets his hands drop to his sides. “Dove, really. I have to get ready. Let’s talk about this later.”

“You mean it?” asks Dove from the hall. “I won’t let you slink away from it, you know.”

“I mean it,” says Gold. “And I don’t _slink_.”


	9. Chapter 9

Gold doesn’t know how to sit properly on Archie’s sofa. It’s entirely too soft, and as Archie fiddles with the DVD player, Gold feels himself sinking deep into the cushions. He braces one palm against the armrest and tries to pull himself free, then crosses his legs in a futile effort to keep from being absorbed again.

“So, this is my personal favorite,” says Archie. “ _Scooby-Doo and the Alien Invasion_. It’s got a great musical number right in the middle, you’ll be humming it all week.”

He joins Gold on the couch, and his weight is enough to balance out the cushions and make Gold feel like he’s sitting on a real piece of furniture, and not some sort of sponge. His eyes flicker to the TV as obnoxious music blares and a cartoon dog takes over the screen.

“Pongo loves this one, too,” says Archie, rather unnecessarily, as Pongo is sitting as close to the TV as possible, wagging his tail. Gold’s gaze can’t seem to stick to the TV; it wanders over to the bookshelf in the corner, then up to the cricket-shaped clock, and finally over to a framed collection of tobacco pipes.

Gold desperately wants to mention those pipes. He can’t tear his eyes away from them; he knows when an item held a story -- what he never really mastered was how to ask about it. A dozen different conversation-starters fly through his brain, but each time he thinks he’s settled on one, he opens his mouth and finds he still doesn’t know how to begin.

“This guy reminds me of you,” says Archie. Gold breaks his gaze away from the pipes and finds Archie smiling at him. It takes Gold a moment to notice Archie is pointing at the TV. Gold takes a look and blanches; the man onscreen is enormous, easily twice the size of the other characters.

“Why,” Gold says  It doesn’t come out as a question; he’s relieved with how flat he sounds, his voice betraying none of his horror.

“Well, because he’s gruff,” says Archie, cheeks reddening. “And he’s not very sociable, so everyone thinks he must be a bad guy. But really, he’s alright. At the end, you find out he presses flowers.”

The large man isn’t onscreen anymore; Gold tries to curl himself into the corner of the sofa and disappear. A wave of nausea rolls over him, and he clamps his jaw tight, feeling his teeth grind against each other.

It’s ten minutes before Archie stands and flashes Gold a grin. “You want anything from the kitchen?” he asks.

“Er…” says Gold.

“Come on, I’ll show you what I got,” Archie says. He turns, gesturing for Gold to follow him, and disappears into the kitchen before Gold can move. He forces himself to unclench his jaw and waits for the nausea to ebb before he stands.

In the kitchen, Archie’s counters are covered in bags of crisps, crackers, and biscuits. Gold surveys the room briefly and ignores Archie’s expectant, waggling eyebrows to lean on the kitchen table, examining the finish.

“This is exquisite,” Gold murmurs. Archie rips open a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips.

“The table?” he asks, accepting the distraction good-naturedly, if he notices it at all. “It’s ancient.”

“It’s a butterfly table,” says Gold. “Made of maple. 19th Century. It needs a touch-up, but it’s nice.”

“A-a butterfly table?” Archie asks, coming closer. He leans over Gold’s shoulder and examines the table himself.

“It’s a gate-leg drop-leaf table,” says Gold. “The sides are attached to the legs, so when the legs swing out, the tabletop expands to allow for more room. The braces are what makes it a butterfly table; see how they flare out, like wings?”

Archie bends down to look beneath the table and nods. “I see,” he says. “I didn’t realize I had any antiques in the house.”

That comment is frankly absurd to Gold. He could perhaps understand Archie’s ignorance about the exact type of table he owns, but surely he can tell just by looking that it isn’t your average moving-sale relic.

Archie holds the open bag of chips out, waving it under Gold’s nose. Trying to control his expression of distaste, Gold pushes it away.

“If you’re convinced I have an eating disorder,” says Gold, “you might consider putting more thought into your culinary arsenal.”

“I have carrots and apples in the fridge,” says Archie readily.

Gold raises his eyebrow at Archie.

Archie smiles.

* * *

It’s only after the second Scooby-Doo movie, when Gold has reluctantly accepted a ziploc baggie of grapes from Archie’s fridge, that Gold asks about the pipes. Archie’s face breaks into a wide grin, like he’s been waiting all his life for someone to ask about them.

“It’s kind of a weird story,” he says. “See, when I was a kid, my parents and I moved around a lot in this little caravan they had, and we would always settle down with other big groups of people. We were always there after everyone else had left, and one day when I was six, I found a pipe someone had left behind, and I liked it, so … I kept it.”

Gold tries to imagine a small boy finding a pipe in the dirt around a deserted campfire, or stuck in the earth like a blade of grass. He can’t force this image to mesh with the pristine, polished pipes framed on the wall.

“I found a lot of them over the years,” Archie says. “But when I was a teenager, I left home, and I guess my mom probably threw out the collection. Came across this at a garage sale years later and bought it immediately.”

“Ah,” says Gold. He tries to think of something to say and can’t; he’s itching to grab the frame off the wall and examine the pipes up close, but dismisses that option out of hand. He longs to ask Archie for more details on the garage sale -- where was it held, could he describe the house, was it a moving sale, did the other items for sale seem high quality -- but for some reason, that feels gauche, and he’s already embarrassed himself over the butterfly table in the dining room.

So he turns and stares at the blank TV instead.

“You up for another movie?” Archie asks.

“Er,” says Gold. He thinks of Dove and checks the clock, trying to determine whether the meddling giant will have gone home yet.

“It doesn’t have to be Scooby-Doo,” says Archie graciously.

“Well,” says Gold, “I’ll let you choose.”

Archie chooses a bootleg of a Japanese one-man-production of Macbeth, and Gold has to admit he likes this better than Scooby-Doo. They sink back into the couch, and Archie keeps sneaking glances at the grapes, so after about twenty minutes, Gold pops one into his mouth and the sneaky glances vanish.

They part well after midnight. Gold folds himself into his car and puts a hand flat over his stomach; it feels deliciously empty.


	10. Chapter 10

After his shower, Gold stands in the bathroom and stares at himself in the mirror, his towel wrapped around his waist. Carefully, he examines the area where his abdomen gradually segues into hips. Though the scale keeps fluctuating between 117 and 115, there’s still an unsightly layer of fat hanging off him.

Gold tries to pinch it between his fingers and can’t seem to grab onto anything. Eyebrows furrowed, he tries again. Same effect. He scrutinizes his reflection; the fat is right there. He can _see_ it. So why can’t he grab it?

And why does he care, anyway? Flushing suddenly, feeling silly, Gold turns away from his reflection and gets dressed as quickly as he can, retreating to the corner of his bedroom where he’s in no danger of crossing paths with a mirror. He’s fifty years old. People are supposed to gain weight as they age; it’s ordinary. It’s even healthy.

But it doesn’t _feel_ healthy. If he doesn’t fast every day, he feels sluggish and clumsy. He can’t properly remember the last time he’d had more than one meal per day. There had been a period, after Neal died, when it seemed like he gained weight without eating anything at all. He spent so much time in a haze, doing everything mechanically, without thought, that he hadn’t even registered what he was putting into his body, or when.

He’d caught it before it went too far. He’d stepped on a scale for the first time in years when he noticed the red marks his trousers left on his skin. That day was when the fasting started in earnest, he supposes.

He pulls on his jacket. It hangs off him unattractively, making him look like an awkward teen in his dad’s suit. Should he get some of his clothes taken in? Would it be worth it? Or would he just gain the weight back again and wind up with less clothes than before?

He’ll wait. If he can maintain this weight -- 115 or 117 or whatever it really is -- for a full month, then he’ll get the clothes taken in.

If not … Gold hesitates. What else can he possibly do to keep the weight off? It feels like he’s trying everything.

Well, he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.


	11. Chapter 11

He’s got it all under control. He’s got it down to a science. He’s invincible.

Until he faints crossing the street to his shop.

One moment, Dr. Hopper is smiling at him, his dog Pongo straining at the leash, and Gold is grimacing back. The next moment, he’s inexplicably sweating through his shirt and swallowing back a wave of nausea, and he thinks, _I feel like I might faint_.

And then he faints.

He doesn’t know what’s going on, of course. He knows he’s sleeping, because he can’t feel anything. He’s having a nightmare where he can’t stop vomiting, and his stomach and throat are on fire from the pain. It goes on for hours and the intensity never lets up. He _knows_ he’s sleeping, so he should be able to wake himself up, but his eyes won’t open and the darkness continues.

Hours pass.

Hours more.

And then, with no awareness that he’s regained consciousness, Gold’s eyes are full of blurry light that eventually reconfigures itself into Archie’s worried face.

 _Oh no_ , Gold thinks. It feels like ten minutes before he gets his hearing back and manages to sit up. When he sees that he’s still in the middle of the street, and he hasn’t puked at all, he gets so dizzy he has to lay back down.

Archie’s mouth moves. Gold hears a vague mumble.

“Yes,” he says.

“It wasn’t a yes or no question,” Archie says. His voice sounds far away, like Gold is hearing it from underwater. Gold claps a hand over his ear and shakes his head. His eyes dart across the street, making a list of everyone he catches staring at him. Emma stands not five feet away, her arms crossed, scowling down at him so fiercely that Gold thinks he’s done something illegal for a moment.

Archie repeats his first vague mumble. It’s clearer this time.

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Oh,” says Gold. “Breakfast. Today.”

Breakfast today was black coffee with Stevia, followed by a ten-calorie multivitamin, chased by green tea, no honey. Archie looks like he somehow knows this, and he opens his mouth to speak, but Pongo lunges forward to lick Gold’s face at that exact moment. Archie diverts his efforts to controlling the dog, and Gold is saved.

“Let’s get you out of the street,” says Emma. She’s still glowering at him. Gold sits up, reaching for his cane; before he’s gotten his feet under him, Archie’s hands are under his arms, lifting him up. Gold shakes him off and gives him a disgusted look.

Out of the street, no longer impeding traffic, Gold makes a beeline for his shop. He checks his watch surreptitiously and estimates that he was only unconscious for a minute or so. Part of him is shaken and embarrassed, but a much larger part is proud. He’s never fainted during a fast before.

As he unlocks the shop, he sees Emma reaching for him from the corner of his eye. Gold flinches, turning to face her, and realizes she isn’t reaching for him after all. She’s handing him something.

His phone. He stares at it; it’s vibrating in her hand. Carefully, Gold takes it from her and reads the name on the screen.

“ _What_ ,” he says, voice flat. He glares at Emma first, then Archie, silently demanding answers. The phone buzzes in his hand, but Gold doesn’t answer it.

“We figured we should call someone,” Archie says.

“You called my _dad_?” Archie avoids Gold’s eyes; Emma stares back at him, arms crossed, with a steely gaze. “What did you say to him?” Gold snaps. The phone stops buzzing and he shoves it into his pocket; it immediately starts buzzing again.

“Not much,” says Archie, at the same time Emma says.

“He didn’t pick up.”

Gold turns back to the shop door and shoves it open. It smacks against the door jamb and bounces back on Archie and Emma as they follow him in.

When the phone stops buzzing, Gold takes it out of his pocket and turns it off. He sets it on the counter and plants his hands on either side of it. He knows Dad wouldn’t have bothered calling back if they hadn’t left a message, and an urgent one at that.

“ _What_ ,” he says, “did you say to my father?”

Archie hesitates, looking to Emma. Emma doesn’t say anything; she’s still leveling Gold with that flinty glare.

“You rifled through my pockets,” Gold says, his voice dangerously soft. “Took my phone. Called my father.”

“You fainted,” Emma says, like that’s any sort of explanation for her actions. Gold turns his most withering look on Archie, who -- to his credit -- doesn’t shrink away.

“We thought someone should know,” Archie says.

“So call Dove,” Gold snaps. As soon as it’s out of his mouth, he wonders if Emma and Archie even know who Dove is. “My father is seventy-five and lives in Boston. You think he’s going to drop everything and come up here because someone he hasn’t spoken to in ten years briefly lost consciousness?”

Both of them falter at that, and Gold feels a little spark of satisfaction even as he bites his tongue and curses himself for everything he’s revealed.

“Ten years?” Archie says. Emma glances at him, dropping her hard look to stare at the floor. When no one says anything in response, Archie speaks again, more firmly. “You fainted in the middle of the street. Even if it’s … been a while, I’m sure your dad would want to know.”

“Wonderful,” Gold says, voice clipped. Angry words are swirling around his head, but he can’t force them to coalesce into a sentence. In the end, all he can say is, “Go.”

Emma turns on her heel immediately. She’s out the door in seconds. Archie takes longer; he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek and wringing his hands. But he can’t even meet Gold’s eyes, let alone say whatever it is he’s mulling over.

“Go,” Gold says again, and this time Archie does. Gold looks down at his phone, lifeless now, screen blank.

They never did tell him what they said.


	12. Chapter 12

Eleven p.m.

Gold grits his teeth and stares at the ceiling, trying to maintain a grip on his sanity. His bad leg is nothing but one big, excruciating cramp, and it’s all he can do to keep from groaning aloud. He doesn’t hear a word Dad is saying; he’s gripping the phone so hard it’s a wonder he hasn’t crushed it, and he wouldn’t be surprised to find out he’s accidentally turned the speaker off.

Thirty seconds pass, maybe more. The pain eases up a little, just enough for Gold to catch a sentence.

“So you’re at home now?”

“Yes,” Gold says.

He isn’t. He’s lying on the cheap bed in his shop, fully clothes.

“Resting up?” Dad says.

“Yes.”

“Well, make sure that girlfriend of yours checks up on you. They said five people have died already this year. Not even December yet…”

It takes Gold awhile to realize that Dad means Emma, and for a moment, amusement drives away the pain in his calf. It takes him awhile longer to remember that Dad thinks he has the flu. He thanks God that whatever insanity possessed Emma and Archie didn’t allow them to mention how little he’s been eating over the phone.

“You get your shot?” Dad asks.

“Yes. Last month.”

“Those things don’t work anyway,” Dad says. “Look where it got you.”

Gold says nothing. He suspects if he’d said no, he would’ve received a long lecture about the importance of inoculations.

“You were sickly as a kid, too,” says Dad. “Way it’s supposed to be is sickly kids are healthy as adults, and the healthy kids all die before they hit fifty.”

“Mm,” Gold says. His leg flares up again and he doesn’t hear the next few words, and his thoughts shatter for a moment. When they come back, all he thinks is, _When did I fall ill as a kid?_ He tries to remember ever having a fever, or being bedridden, or visiting the hospital, but the worst he comes up with is when he lost his voice as a teenager, and that was when he was living with his aunts. Dad wouldn’t know about that.

Maybe he’s thinking of a different kid.

Gold pushes that thought away. He’s heard from family friends about his dad’s other kids, and he tries his hardest to never think about them, or how their childhoods, given names, and overall mental health compare to his.

Gold tunes into Dad’s monologue long enough to hear, “not that I would fuck her anyway,” and tunes back out again. He reaches under the pillow and pulls out a dog-eared Shirley Jackson book. Laying the phone on the mattress near his head, Gold opens the book and flips through it till he finds an interesting part. He’s read this before, but it was long enough in the past that it holds his attention.

“--your little brother--”

“Pardon?” Gold says, snapping back to attention.

“Your little brother,” Dad repeats. “His memorial service is next week. Figured you might want to come.”

Gold absorbs that. His left hand steals down to his ribs and forms a fist. Without thinking, he grinds his knuckles into his bones, methodically working until he’s certain he’s formed a bruise.

“My brother,” Gold repeats.

“Felix,” Dad supplies.

“He died?”

“You don’t listen, do you,” Dad says. “Your aunt should’ve told you. She made a post about it on Facebook.”

“I don’t have Facebook,” Gold says. “When was this?”

“Oh,” Dad says, voice going high-pitched as he thinks. “Five years ago. Maybe four?”

Gold mulls this over. He reaches over and hits the speaker button again, so he can no longer hear his dad’s voice and -- more importantly -- his dad can’t hear him slamming his fist into his own ribs, as hard as he can. Gold doesn’t flinch or wince as he does it. He stares at the ceiling, face blank, and keeps punching until the pain in his ribs drowns out the pain in his leg.

Five years. Well, no wonder he doesn’t remember it. Even if someone did tell him, he would’ve been drowning in grief over Bae, no energy left over to mourn a half-brother he doesn’t even know.

He turns speaker back on.

“Which one was Felix?” Gold asks.

“Blond one,” Dad says, which isn’t as informative as he must think. “Crashed his car on the interstate one night. Black ice. Bawled my eyes out when I heard. I know you and I were never close, but me and Felix…”

Gold blinks at that. His ribs are still stinging from the last assault, so he forces himself to unclench his fist and relax, letting Dad’s words run off him. He forces himself to tap into his small inner reserves of sympathy.

“It’s hard,” he says. The words click together and almost get stuck in his throat. “Losing a son.”

He doesn’t know what to feel when Dad just chuckles. “Yeah, how would you know?” he says lightly. “Anyway, if you want to come down for the service, you’re more than welcome. Finally meet your family.”

Gold barely hears. He’s trying to figure out if Dad has genuinely forgotten he had a grandson, once.  

“Kid?” Dad says.

“I … yes,” says Gold. “Of course. In Boston?”

“Boston?” Dad says. Before Gold can respond, he’s speaking again, with a painful amount of scorn in his voice. “I haven’t lived in Boston in ten goddamn years. Jesus. No, the service is in Saco.”

Gold opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “Saco, Maine?”

“Where else?”

“Dad …” Gold struggles for words. He shakes his head, trying to clear it. “You’ve lived in _Saco_ , _Maine_ for ten years?”

“You’d know that, if you ever called.”

Gold is speechless for the third time in thirty seconds. “That’s less than an hour away,” he manages eventually.

“From where?”

“Storybrooke,” Gold says. He doesn’t get a response for long enough that he realizes this means nothing to Dad. “Where I live.”

“Oh,” Dad says. “No kidding? Maybe I’ll visit you sometime. Nice place?”

Gold mentally reconstructs a photo he sent Dad of five-year-old Bae at the wooden playground by the sea. He doesn’t remember Dad’s response, if he ever sent one.

“Nice enough,” Gold says.

For a long time, Dad says nothing. The silence stretches into awkwardness.

“Well,” says Dad eventually, “I’ll text you the address, for the memorial. You can bring your girlfriend if you want. I wanna thank her for calling me.”

Gold nods, mouth dry. He knows Dad can’t see him, but he doesn’t feel like saying anything aloud.

“I’ll see you in a week, I guess,” Dad says.

“Right.”

They say ‘bye’ at the same time, voices overlapping in their sudden, mutual rush to get off the phone. The call ends at forty-six minutes, and Gold can only remember about five of them. He closes his eyes for a moment, ribs aching.

“Fuck,” he whispers.


	13. Chapter 13

“I thought your parents were dead,” Dove muses, watching Gold pick out a suit for the memorial.

“Both alive, unfortunately,” Gold says. He doesn’t meet Dove’s eye, though he can feel Dove striving to give him a meaningful stare.

“Your mom…?” Dove asks.

“She’s …” Gold waves his free hand vaguely. “In prison somewhere. I don’t know.”

“She’s not going to the funeral, I take it.”

“Memorial service,” Gold corrects automatically. He hears himself sigh as he examines the suit he’d worn for Bae’s funeral. He hasn’t worn it once since then. “Felix wasn’t hers,” says Gold, before Dove has time to notice the heavy way he’s looking at this suit. “Just me.”

“Oh.” There’s a loud, unsteady creak as Dove sits down on Gold’s bed, and Gold shoots him a wary look over his shoulder.

“That’s mahogany,” he says. “You break it, you buy it.”

“If it’s mahogany, it won’t break,” says Dove evenly, unintimidated. “So who’s Felix’s mom? Is she gonna be there?”

Gold gives a hesitant, one-shoulder shrug. He doesn’t want to admit how strangely uncomfortable he feels thinking about his father’s other kids. Until Dad’s phone call, he didn’t know any of their names.

“ _Felix_ ,” he mutters under his breath. “Devin. Michael.”

Dove cocks his head. “Those your brothers' names?”

Gold doesn’t respond, scowling at the closet as he moves the suit from Bae’s funeral all the way to the back.

“They’re all very ordinary,” Dove comments. “I mean, Felix is a bit strange. But at least he gave you a name with charm.”

“He gave me a name he hated,” Gold says.

“It’s a good name,” says Dove stubbornly. “It’s a writer’s name.”

“Well, I’m not a writer. It was his father’s name --”

“So it’s a name with history,” says Dove, ever the optimist.

“--and he despises his father,” Gold finishes. “And he never bothered to call me by that name, in any case. He just … bastardized it.”

“Bastardized it how?” Dove asks. Gold shudders and shakes his head, declining to answer. He picks a suit out from the back of the closet -- more formal than his usual fare, it’s what he usually reserves for ridiculous ‘classy’ functions around town, like Regina’s election parties. He slips it carefully into plastic, and then into a garment bag.

Behind him, Dove clears his throat. Gold pretends not to hear, but eventually, Dove speaks anyway.

“You want me to come with you?” Dove asks, voice soft. “Moral support?”

Gold’s mouth goes dry. He imagines Dove standing next to him at the memorial service, and for a moment it’s immensely appealing. Gold has a knack for conveying to strangers, without words, that he doesn’t wish to speak to them, but when he’s right next to Dove, he doesn’t even need to glare to keep people away. They see Dove, they stay away on their own accord.

But Dove is an employee, not a friend, no matter how many times he tries to blur the line.

“I’ll be fine,” says Gold. He turns to lay the garment bag on the bed, avoiding the hard stare Dove gives him.

“And you’ll eat at least one meal a day,” Dove says, trying to give a command. It comes out more like a question. “At least one, okay?”

Gold sucks in a breath to point out for the thousandth time that he doesn’t have an eating disorder -- but what’s the point? He doesn’t feel like arguing anyway.

“Fine,” he says.


	14. Chapter 14

“It’s tough losing a son, of course it is,” says Malcolm at the podium. He almost sounds sincere, but he’s putting just a little too much ham in his acting to be truly convincing. At the back of the crowd, Gold shifts his hold on his cane and tries not to grimace. It’s chilly out, but the sun is bright and glaring down at him, making him feel nauseous. Behind his sunglasses, his eyes dart around the crowd, trying to pick out the people he might be related to, however loosely.

His vision greys; he waits for it to fade, but it just gets worse. Gritting his teeth, Gold finds the nearest empty seat and sits down; the last thing he wants is to faint at Felix’s memorial. He’s just here for appearances; as soon as the service is over, he’s speeding back to Storybrooke as fast as he can.

“What comforts me, when I think of Felix,” says Malcolm into the microphone, “are the immortal words of Algernon Swinburne: _From too much love of living, from hope and fear set free, we thank with brief thanksgiving whatever gods may be that no man lives forever; that dead men rise up never; that even the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea_.”

Gold swallows back a wave of nausea and distaste; someone had sent him a card with those lines on it when Bae died, and he’d thought back then what he’s thinking now: that it was all very pretty, and a lovely sentiment, but Swinburne had been _alive_ when he wrote it, so what authority did he have on the matter? No one ever quotes the next verse, either. They leave it there, with the comforting image of water, of nature, of rivers and the sea.

It turns out Gold can’t swallow back the nausea forever. He stands abruptly and his vision greys out again, so he walks to the bathroom blind. His eyesight comes back around the same time he grips the sink and spits into it. His mouth is full of a terrible, bitter taste, but no bile comes up. He tears his sunglasses off, tucks them into his pocket, examines himself in the mirror. He’s pale and he can feel himself sweating through his shirt, though his skin looks dry. He presses the back of his hand against his forehead, then against his cheek, and feels how cold he is.

Gold takes in a deep breath, exhales, and puts his sunglasses back on. When he makes his way back outside, Malcolm is no longer at the podium and people are milling about, some heading for the exit, some chatting with each other, some folding up the uncomfortable aluminum chairs on the lawn.

“Avrom!” Malcolm calls. Gold hears it loud and clear but pretends he doesn’t; he does an about-face and joins the crowd around the exit. The next time he hears his father’s voice, it’s much closer. “Avrom, come here!”

Gold doesn’t have time to escape; a hand closes around his right arm, tight like a vice, and yanks him out of the crowd. He stumbles, unable to get his cane under him, and is only kept standing by Malcolm’s tight grip.

He finds him face to face with two well-built, dark-haired men. They look healthy, strong, and confident in themselves; each is a head taller than Gold.

“Lads, this is my eldest,” says Malcolm, shaking Gold’s arm. Gold grits his teeth and jerks his arm out of Malcolm’s grasp as surreptitiously as possible. If Malcolm notices, he doesn’t let on; he uses his now-free hand to gesture to Gold and say, “Avrom Gold!”

“Avromplestiltskin?” says the slightly-shorter of the two dark-haired men, his eyes glittering. The word rolls off his tongue like he’s heard it from Malcolm thousands of times. Gold’s brief attempt at a friendly smile tightens up and turns mean, but he doesn’t say anything, and Malcolm just laughs.

“That’s right. Named after my dad.”

“More’s the pity,” says the taller of the two, smiling. It’s a friendly but sad smile, the type that normal people give to other normal people at memorial services, and seeing it makes Gold feel sick to his stomach.

“Avrom, this is Devin,” says Malcolm, gesturing to the shorter man, “and Michael,” gesturing to the taller. “My sons.”

Michael steps forward and offers his hand for Gold to shake. Devin makes no move to do the same. Reluctantly, Gold shakes Michael’s hand.

“You joining us for lunch, Avrom?” Michael asks, politely enough. Gold eyes him, deciding that Michael must have been raised primarily by his mother -- whoever she is -- and not by Malcolm.

“Course he is,” says Malcolm before Gold can answer. “Never passes up a meal, this one. Ate me out of house and home when he was a kid.” Gold grimaces, but the comment alone doesn’t really bother him until Malcolm steps forward and grabs a handful of Gold’s jacket, acting like it’s a roll of fat. “Always was the chubby one, growing up!”

Michael and Devin both chuckle at that, and Gold’s ears are so full of a rushing noise that he barely hears Michael’s murmur of, “Well, that’s not true.”

Small comfort. Gold knows he was never chubby as a child. What few photos of him exist show a child so small some would think he was dying. Malcolm’s words take root in his brain nonetheless, and it feels as though his mind is split in two: one side plays a slideshow of all the pictures taken of Gold when he was young, showing incontrovertible evidence that he was thin. The other side spirals into doubt, turning over every schoolyard compliment and taunt and re-examining them from a new light, searching for evidence that he really was “the chubby one,” as Malcolm says.

“Well, let’s go, then,” says Malcolm, his voice just managing to penetrate the thick, swirling layer of Gold’s thoughts. “McDonagh’s for lunch?”

“Yes,” says Devin,

“The bar, Dad?” says Michael, sounding pained. “It’s one in the afternoon.”

Malcolm just scoffs at that. He turns to Gold, raising his eyebrows. “Coming, Avrom…?” he says. He bites his lip at the end of ‘Avrom,’ and Gold knows Malcolm just barely restrained himself from adding ‘-plestiltskin’ at the end.

Gold rolls his shoulders and shakes his head. “I’ve got to be going,” he says. “Business back home…”

Malcolm doesn’t hang around to hear the full excuse. He claps Gold on the back and walks away immediately, and Devin follows. Only Michael lingers for a while, staring at Gold like he wants to say something. Gold stares back and feels a hundred questions bubbling into his mind: Were you ever homeless growing up? Did he abandon you, too? Did he feed you? Three meals a day, or did you fend for yourself like I did? Did he hit you? Did he use you in scams? Did you get caught in fights with him, against full-grown adults, when he got caught?

But he doesn’t ask any of those questions. He knows, by looking at Michael, that perhaps he didn’t have the most ideal childhood -- but he certainly had one. He has the healthy, self-assured eyes of someone whose parents fed him nutritional meals, helped him with his schoolwork, and drove him to football games. Malcolm is still Malcolm, and Gold is sure that Michael had plenty of bad days growing up, but it’s undeniable when they look at each other that, despite the similarities, Michael’s version of Malcolm is vastly different from Gold’s.

“You’re sure you don’t want to tag along?” Michael asks. “Get some meat on those bones?”

Gold’s mouth is dry.

“I’ve got to be going,” he says again. “It was nice meeting you, Michael.”


	15. Chapter 15

Coming to the memorial service, Gold had every intention of eating something small before making the hour-long drive back to Storybrooke, but after Malcolm’s comments on his weight, it’s as though he’s wearing a muzzle, and he couldn’t eat if he tried. He tries to rationalize with himself: he’s been thin his entire life, and he knows this. The only time in his life he’s been an average size was when Bae died, and then Gold’s weight had steadily crept up from 130 (thin, but healthy) to 160, which still didn’t qualify as overweight at his height.

Still, that’s the heaviest he’s ever been, and Malcolm wasn’t around to see Gold at the time. So, logically, Gold knows that Malcolm can’t truly believe his eldest son was ever overweight -- he knows that Malcolm, like always, has sniffed out one of Gold’s many vulnerabilities and pounced on it, for whatever reason Malcolm always pounces on him.

But that’s thinking logically, and the mental muzzle Gold’s wearing isn’t interested in logic. Instead of stopping somewhere for that one-meal-a-day he promised Dove, Gold finds himself sitting in the driver’s seat of his car, clutching the wheel. His jaw is clenched painfully, but he can’t seem to loosen it up.

He wishes he could figure out his own motivations. His whole life, he’s only wanted to be taller and stronger -- like Malcolm, or his half-brothers. But being stronger would, of course, mean gaining weight, and every time he sees the scale go up, he feels panicked and violent and out-of-control.

He takes a deep breath and holds it, leaning his forehead against the steering wheel, jaw still clenched and starting to get sore. A quote leaps into his mind, unwelcome and unbidden. This time, it’s not Swinburne.

 _Some people experience ongoing memories of the abuse throughout their life. These traumatic memories can be reignited by the smallest of reminders, and the emotions connected to them can trigger disordered eating_.

Gold blinks rapidly, shaking this thought away, and starts the car.


	16. Chapter 16

109.

Gold stares at the scale until the numbers blink and disappear. It must be wrong. He steps off and back on again, and after a moment, the numbers glare up at him, bright red, stabbing right into his brain.

109.

Dazed, Gold steps off the scale. He didn’t weigh himself yesterday -- has been lax about it since the memorial service -- but the day before yesterday, he was 119. In fact, he’s been hovering around 120 all week, much to his disgust.

He kneels down with difficulty, hanging onto the towel rack with one hand so he doesn’t fall. He flips the scale over, checks that the battery hasn’t come loose like it sometimes does. Then he puts the scale back in its usual position and steps on.

109.

Gold shakes his head and steps back off. He leaves the bathroom with a hollow feeling in his gut. In the bedroom, he’s faced by a full-length mirror and he hesitates before looking himself head-on. He looks away again quickly; there isn’t much of a difference from last time he checked, but he does look thinner.

He doesn’t get dressed right away. Instead, for the first time he can remember in his miserable, repressed life, Gold lies on the bed naked, no underwear, no pajama bottoms, and stares at the ceiling. His half-brothers have been banished from his mind ever since his funeral, but now they come sneaking back into his mind inexplicably. He guesses that each of them weigh about 180, higher than his highest weight, though neither of them could be described as fat.

Gold places one hand over his ribs. The bruises there have faded, but the area is still tender. He runs his fingers over each and every prominent bones from his collarbone down to his hips. Did he ever really mean to get this small? Has he ever in his life wished to be under 110?

He closes his eyes and sighs.

This is getting out of hand.


	17. Chapter 17

“Lunch,” Archie repeats, dumbfounded. Gold stands on the threshold to Archie’s office and glares up at him; there are dark circles under his eyes and his suit looks like it’s been taken in, as Archie’s certain it was too big last week, and now it fits fine, though Gold certainly hasn’t gained any weight.

“Yes, lunch,” Gold says. He adds waspishly, “Or are you on a diet?”

Archie says nothing. Gold’s face shutters off as soon as he says the word ‘diet,’ and Archie is sure he sees a hint of embarrassment and regret before all emotion is wiped away.

“I just don’t understand,” says Archie patiently. “I’d love to get lunch with you -- I just --”

“What don’t you understand?” says Gold. He’s clearly trying to mirror Archie’s patience, but without much success. His jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful.

Archie gestures vaguely. “I didn’t think you ate lunch,” he says. “You’re the last person I--”

“Dr. Hopper,” says Gold. The words come grinding out of his mouth with great difficulty. “Just say yes.”

Archie blinks. He can see Gold practically vibrating with irritation.

“Okay,” he says. “Where to?”

Gold’s mouth twitches and he half-turns, then forces himself to face Archie again, arms crossed. “I don’t know,” he says tightly. “Get your coat. Pick somewhere.” Archie turns to grab his coat and scarf off the hook by the door and hears Gold mutter another “I don’t know.”

“It’s my choice?” Archie asks as he buttons up the coat. He raises his eyebrows at Gold. “Am I buying?”

If possible, Gold’s jaw clenches even tighter.

“Yes, it’s your choice,” he hisses. “No, you’re not buying. Can we --?”

He makes an aborted gesture toward the hall, impatient to get going. Archie wraps the scarf around his neck hastily and sets off; he gets the feeling Gold will kill him if he doesn’t.

“There’s a cheap seafood place on the boardwalk,” Archie says. “Pirate Pete’s. You ever been?”

Gold scoffs and says, “Tourist trap,” under his breath.

“Well, I choose Pirate Pete’s, if we’re getting lunch,” says Archie. Gold scowls.

“Fine. It doesn’t matter.”

When they get outside, Archie is surprised to see Gold’s Cadillac parked by the curb. He shoots Gold a curious look and Gold ignores it, brushing past Archie to unlock the car. Gradually, Archie forces himself to push away any and all questions and get in the passenger’s seat; he’s never known Gold to drive to work, despite the injured leg, and the boardwalk is certainly within walking distance. But then he glances at Gold again, sees how pale and tired he looks, and decides he already knows why they’re driving.

“So …” says Archie as they pull away from the curb. 

“Archie,” says Gold, his voice harsh. Archie falls silent, startled by the use of his first name. “Here’s the rules. You don’t let me order anything under five hundred calories. You don’t let me leave the table. If I say I feel ill, I’m not. If I say I have to piss afterward, I’m lying. Don’t let me go to the bathroom.” He casts Archie a sidelong glance, his eyes dark, and asks, “When is your next appointment?”

“Er,” says Archie, suddenly struggling to remember. “Two.”

“Then we’re going for a walk afterward,” says Gold, turning back to face the road. Archie considers the road for a moment longer and then stares out the window as well.

“Giving recovery a try?” he asks. Gold is silent for a while, then mutters,

“I’m one hundred five today.”

“Pounds?” Archie asks, his gaze whipping back to Gold.

“Yes. Pounds.” Gold glances at him. “One hundred five kilograms? Can you imagine?”

Archie is torn between a hysterical urge to laugh and even more hysterical urge to cry. He eyes Gold’s brittle-looking wrists and turns away again, unable to keep looking. His mouth fights his brain (and years of training) over what to say before he settles on,

“Well, it’s very brave of you to take this step.”

“Save it,” says Gold. He turns into the parking lot by the boardwalk, taking a spot near the seawall. “Let’s just --” He sighs heavily and shakes his head as he puts the car in park. “Let’s just do this.”

They exit the car at the same time and make their way to the gaudy restaurant at the end of the boardwalk. Exhausted-looking teenagers stand outside with a pot of clam chowder, offering free samples to passersby. They somehow manage to miss Archie and Gold with this offer.

Inside the restaurant, Gold doesn’t seem to feel like speaking, so it’s Archie who says “Two, please,” to the hostess and secures them a table by the window, with a view of the choppy, gray ocean and a few scraggly-looking seagulls. Gold glances at the menu and then pushes it away, and Archie correctly assumes that he’ll be ordering for them both.

Despite all the rules set forth by Gold, lunch goes smoothly. He eats slowly, chewing each bite ten times, which Archie can’t help but notice -- but he finishes most of his food, and he doesn’t stop to make excuses once. There’s a hollow, distant look in his eyes, and he avoids looking at Archie directly through the whole meal.

“Is this an everyday thing?” Archie asks with false casualness as Gold pays the check. Gold glances out the window at the grey water.

“Yes,” he says, nearly inaudible. Archie nods.

“Okay. Weekends, too?”

“Yes,” says Gold again. His eyes flicker to Archie and then away again. “Don’t take this arrangement as any sort of invitation into my private life,” he warns, staring out the window. “I’m not looking for a therapist. If you ask me any personal questions, I’m raising your rent.”

Archie grins at that and leans forward on his elbows, forcing Gold to glance at him again. “If you’re not looking for a therapist, then what are you looking for?”

Gold’s eyebrows furrow. “I don’t know what you’re fishing for,” he says caustically. “Let’s go.”

They leave the restaurant, and Gold seems ten times wearier than before, but he doesn’t try to cancel the walk. Without consulting Archie, he sets off toward the end of the boardwalk, away from their car. Archie follows.

“I was just thinking,” says Archie, “that maybe you’re looking for a friend.”

Gold says nothing.

“Everyone needs friends,” says Archie. He shrugs and tucks his hands into his pockets. “And in certain situations, I guess this … sort of thing is what friends are for.”

Gold shoots him a pained look. “Are you going to blather on for the whole walk?”

Archie can’t help but grin at that. “You can’t pretend to be upset about it when you’re the one who initiated friendship in the first place,” he says lightly. “But if you must pretend, I’m fine with that. I’m happy just to have lunch with you, and go one walks, et cetera.”

Gold shoots him another, even more pained look. 

“Besides,” says Archie, “there’s no rule against talking.”

Gold scoffs at that, but his next step takes him a little closer to Archie; their shoulders bump and their arms brush and Gold steps away again as though nothing happened. Archie’s smile softens and he leans closer, gently bumping Gold back. They circle the boardwalk together, walking slowly and slightly closer to each other than they were before. When they find their way back to the car nearly an hour later, Gold is trembling and looks physically ill, but he gets into the Cadillac without protest. 

“Tomorrow?” Gold says, staring grimly out the window. His fingers, clenched tightly around the steering wheel, are shaking.

“Tomorrow,” Archie confirms.


End file.
